Fletch and the Widow Bradley f-4

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “Thomas Bradley,” Fletch said. “Your boss. Didn’t he die?”

  All the men guffawed.

  “Depends on which paper you read,” one of them said. “Another round of drinks, Mike,” he said to the bartender. “What for you?” he asked, looking into Fletch’s glass. “I don’t know your name.”

  “Mike,” Fletch said. “Mike Smith.”

  “And a beer for Mike, Mike.”

  “Mike Smith? You were on the U. at Berkeley golf team, weren’t you?”

  “Is Thomas Bradley dead or not?” Fletch asked.

  “Everywhere but in the News-Tribune.”

  Fletch looked confused.

  “Yes,” Alex Corcoran said in a more serious tone. “He died. About a year ago. Did you know him?”

  “I knew his sister,” Fletch said. “In New York. Francine.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Corcoran’s face expressed great interest.

  “Well, met her once,” Fletch said. “At a party, you know?”

  “What’s she like?” Alex asked.

  “You mean you’ve never met her?”

  “No. She’s coming out to take over the company, and I’ve never met her. Tom used to say she was brilliant. Never came West, as far as I know.”

  “How did Tom die?” Fletch asked.

  “Went to France for some medical treatments and didn’t survive them, is what I understand.”

  “France?”

  “Never knew he was as sick as he was. He used to be moody, and act down-in-the-dumps once in a while. Jeez, I didn’t know the guy was fatally ill—dyin’!”

  “But you did know he was sick?”

  “No. Not really. The only comment I made about it to my wife was that he seemed to be getting smaller. Don’t ask me what I mean, because I don’t know. I guess his shoulders got thinner. He must have lost weight. He wasn’t very big to begin with. Poor ol’ Tom. Here’s to you, Tom.” Alex raised his glass and tipped it like a censer before drinking.

  “Nice trophy,” Fletch said, nodding to it on the bar.

  “Say, so you know his sister, Francine Bradley, eh?” Alex Corcoran said.

  “Well, as I said, I only met her once.”

  “Enid says she’s a real clever business woman, that this Francine and Tom used to talk all the time. Some of Tom’s best ideas came from Francine, Enid said.”

  “I guess she’s pretty clever,” Fletch said.

  “Tom left it in his Will that Francine was to take over operation of the company—if she was willing and able. Tell you—what’s your name?”

  “Mike.”

  “I’ll tell you, Mike, I’ll welcome her with open arms.”

  “You will? Company not running so well?”

  “Well, you know, a company needs a head—someone to make the people-decisions, give it a direction. I’m president, by the grace of Tom Bradley, but I’m not good that way. What I’m very good at is selling things to people. That’s all I can do; that’s all I want to do. I mean, really, my wife says I could sell snowballs to Siberians. Long-range corporate planning, the day-to-day stuff—I’m not good that way. Enid tries, but, you know …”

  “Enid is Tom’s wife?”

  “Yeah. Nice lady. Once in a while she has a good idea, but, you know … long-range planning. Listen, anything Tom Bradley decided to do with his company is all right with me. He could have left it to his horse, and I’d say, sure, fine, good idea.”

  “Tom rides?”

  Alex looked at him. “A figure of speech. Don’t you know your Roman history?”

  “Oh.”

  “As a matter of fact, Tom did ride. Kept a horse out in the valley, somewhere. Rode on Sundays, some week-day mornings. Yeah, he liked riding. He’d go alone, I guess.”

  “Sounds like you were fond of him.”

  “Listen.” Alex’s eyes became a little wet. “Fond of him … I loved that guy. He was a real gentleman. Except for his stupid, raunchy jokes everybody had always heard before. That’s what was so funny about them. He was one hell of a nice man. People like that shouldn’t die so young. When you consider all the shits who live a lot older—like me!”

  “Gotta split.” Fletch put his beer glass on the bar, and held out his hand to Alex Corcoran. “Nice talking with you. Sorry about Tom Bradley.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I gotta go too. My wife will be lookin’ for me.” Two of the other golfers in the group had left. Alex Corcoran picked his trophy up off the bar. “Come here, you little darlin’.” He kissed it. “Where the hell would a man be, if it weren’t for golf?”

  “Home with the wife,” said one of the other golfers.

  And they all laughed.

  15

  F L E T C H D R O V E H O M E in the dark, but the lights in his apartment were on and Moxie came to the door as soon as she heard his key in the lock. She was wearing an apron and nothing else.

  “Gee,” Fletch said. ‘Just like a wife.”

  “Not like wife.” With her fingers Moxie held the edges of the apron’s skirt away from her skin and curtsied, as a geisha might. “Like Moxie Mooney.”

  He kissed her. “Your ex-wife called,” she said. He kissed her again. “Tom Jeffries called. Wants you to call him back.” He kissed her again.

  “What did good ol’ Linda want?”

  “Oh, we talked a long time. She told me what a male nymphomaniac you are, how unreliable you are, how funny you are. She told me about the time you called her from the office and said you were on your way home and then went to Hawaii.”

  “There was a story in Hawaii.”

  “She said the meatloaf got cold. How cruel you were to her cat. I believe she loves you.”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “I told her I believe you still love her.”

  “Thanks a heap. I love paying her alimony.”

  “Oh, she said you haven’t. Paid her any alimony, that is. I told her I didn’t understand that, as you have scads of money, have just ordered a sixty-foot motor cruiser, and anytime she needs money she’s to come to you, alimony be damned.”

  “Terrific. What else did you do for me?”

  “Told her you’d just given me a diamond tiara and a mink coat.”

  “I’m sure she believed you.”

  “I don’t think so, somehow. Go telephone what’s-his-name. He’s the guy with the broken back, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll run you a bath.”

  “Why don’t we—?”

  She put her hand against his shoulder and pushed. “Yucky, dirty, smelly boy. If I’m going to give my all for you, least you might do is remove the outer layer of pollution.”

  “But, but—”

  “Lots of evening left.”

  She turned her back on him and hopped into the bathroom.

  ‘Tom? Fletch. How’s life at ground level?”

  “Never, never, Fletch, have I known there were so many ants in the world. All day I spend in the patio watching ants.”

  From the livingroom, Fletch could hear the bath water running. “You don’t see many ants when you’re hang-gliding I guess.”

  “Actually, ants are sort of interesting. Just like people, only more so.”

  “The Darwin of the patio.”

  “Listen, I called you not only because I’m bored out of my mind but also to tell you a funny story. Cheer you up. A story under the heading Incompetent People Who Do Not Get Fired From The News-Tribune—”

  “There are some?”

  “Jack Carradine called this morning, after you left. About Clara Snow.”

  “What’s she done now?”

  “You know she’s been assigned to the State House, just as if she were a real reporter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, while assigned to the State House she failed to report that the Governor’s press-secretary’s brother owns a car dealership which, if you can believe it, has been selling cars to the state police.”

  “Clara didn’t report th
at?”

  “She put her nose up in the air, looked all haughty, you know, as only she can, and said she felt the matter was too personal.”

  “To whom?”

  “A private matter, she said. Having to do with family life. Not in the public interest to report. Then she said the state police have to buy their cars from somewhere. Can you believe that?”

  “It makes me angry.”

  “Good. I thought it would cheer you up. Of course you know Clara’s been going to bed with the press secretary.”

  “I thought she was going to bed with Frank Jaffe.”

  “Him, too, Clara goes to bed with anyone who can help her career. You can’t say Clara doesn’t give her all. Which is why she’s being allowed to get away with this little slip of her’s.”

  “Are you telling me Frank still isn’t going to run the story?”

  “Jack says Frank called the Governor and told him to put an end to this corruption within a month, or the News-Tribune would blow the whistle. How do you like those sweet peas?”

  “Jeez. I hope the competition gets wise to it.”

  “You could always make sure they do, Fletch.”

  “No. I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Just trying to get you a job, man.”

  “Not that way.”

  “How do you feel, Fletch?”

  “Lousey. How do you feel?”

  “Lousey. See ya.”

  “See ya.”

  Fletch called the News-Tribune. There was no chance of the bathtub overflowing. Water ran into it at about the speed of decisions reached by committee.

  “Classifieds,” the girl said. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, please,” Fletch said. “I’d like to run an item in your Lost and Found column.”

  “Yes, sir. What’s the message?”

  “Wallet found name James St. E. Crandall write Box number—whatever box number you give me.”

  “236.”

  “236.”

  “James St. E. like in James Saint Edward or something?”

  “Yes.”

  “C-r-a-n-d-a-1-1?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what name and number shall I bill this to?”

  “I. M. Fletcher.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “That you, Fletch?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, real sorry you got booted. What did you do, set fire to Frank Jaffe’s pants?”

  “I thought everyone knew.”

  “Yeah, I know. You quoted a stiff.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Mary Patouch.”

  “Well, Mary. Want my address?”

  “Fletch, I’ve always wanted your address. You know that.” Fletch gave her his address and then called the San Francisco Chronicle long-distance and placed the same ad.

  “How did I meet Fletcher?” Moxie said like a child talking to herself. She had dropped her apron on the bathroom floor and gotten into the tub of warm water with Fletch. “I was buying a hot dog and this nice man standing next to me at the counter paid for it and then said nothing to me. So I said, ‘Thank you very much, sir,’ and you said, ‘Seeing we’re having such a terrible lunch, why don’t we have dinner together?’”

  “Your story is true so far. And you said, ‘Yes, all right’. Why did you say, ‘Yes, all right’?”

  “Because you’re beautiful and smooth and have funny eyes and I wanted to touch you.”

  “Oh. Perfectly good reason.”

  “Your eyes look like they’re laughing all the time. Almost all the time.”

  “I see.”

  “You can’t see your eyes. And at dinner I told you I had to come down here this weekend to start rehearsals Monday and you said you were driving this way next day, you had to be back at the office, ho ho ho, and why shouldn’t I save bus fare by coming with you. So, seeing we were friends already, we went back to my place and …”

  “… and what?”

  “And touched each other.”

  She kissed his throat and he kissed her forehead.

  “So tell me about this day,” she said. “I’ve known you three days, but only been with you two.”

  “A very ordinary day,” Fletch said. “Just like all the others. Met a grouchy guy who tried to throw me off his place while I was trying to do him a favor, I thought, called the cops and tried to have me arrested.”

  “And did the cops give you a shower and shave today?”

  “Not today. A ticket for driving barefoot. Then I met a marvelous happy woman named Happy who invited me in and cooked me up three hamburgers.”

  “Nice of her. She wanted your bod?”

  “For three hamburgers?”

  “I got you for less. Jar of peanut butter.”

  “Charles Blaine’s mother-in-law. Charles Blaine, by the way, the source of my suicidal story, has gone to Mexico.”

  “So you can’t beat him up.”

  “I think I’d like to. Then I met a solid-looking man working on his boat in Southworth who looked less like a neighborhood gossip than Calvin Coolidge but who told me all the gossip about the Bradley family he could think of, and maybe then some.”

  “Did he know who he was talking to?”

  “Of course not. Then I met the widow Bradley.”

  “Jeez, you’re brave. Are these brass?”

  “Can’t take that. The gossipy neighbor said Mrs. Bradley is a midnight screamer who probably drove her husband to attempt suicide. Speaking of her, she is dignified, quiet, reasonable. She says this whole thing happened because Charles Blaine is suffering a nervous breakdown or something, which is why she sent him on vacation.”

  “So is Tom Bradley dead?”

  “Then I went to the Southworth Country Club for a beer.”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can see it. Right there in your stomach.” She pressed her finger against his appendix.

  “Cannot.”

  She kissed his mouth. “I smelled it when you came in.”

  “Met Alex Corcoran, president of Wagnall-Phipps. Everyone says Tom Bradley’s dead. The widow Bradley showed me his ashes.”

  “But, of course, you don’t want to believe it.”

  “Of course I believe it. I believe everything. That’s how I got into trouble in the first place.”

  She pushed his head below water.

  “Glub.”

  “Face it, Fletch. You’re sunk.”

  “Glub. Where you going?”

  She was stepping out of the tub.

  “Forgot the steak. Can’t you smell it burning?”

  “Steak! How’d you get steak?”

  She had called to him, Don’t bother getting dressed—everything’s ready. She had the plates of steak and salad set out on the livingroom rug. She smiled at him when he came in.

  “Opened a charge account,” she said.

  “Your name?”

  “Of course.” She poured wine into the glasses. “Can’t starve forever.”

  “It’s good. Great!”

  “It’s cheap and burnt,” she said. “At least you’ll never have to divorce me.”

  “Why’s that? Not that I was thinking of it, already.”

  “ ‘Cause you’ll never marry me.”

  “Oh. I was thinking of asking.”

  “I’ll never marry anybody.”

  “Never ever?”

  “Never ever. I’m an actor and actors should never get married.”

  “A lot do.”

  “You know about my father.”

  “Frederick Mooney.”

  “ ‘Nough said.”

  “You told me he’s playing Falstaff in Toronto.”

  “When he’s sober. Then he’s playing salesman in Chicago. When he’s sober. Last Christmas he did a baggy-pants comic routine at a dinner theater in Florida. When he was sober.”

  “So he’s an actor who likes to drink. Not the fir
st. Not the last. Your dad was known as a damned fine actor. Still is, as far as I know.”

  “I haven’t told you about my mother.”

  “No.”

  “She’s in a very expensive home in Kansas for the mentally absent.”

  “Oh. You think that’s your father’s fault?”

  “Packing, unpacking, packing. Putting him to bed. Getting him up. Sobering him up. Looking for him in the bars. Reminding him which God-damn play he’s performing. Years of it. Taking care of me, on the road. Putting up with his women. His disappearances. His tensions. His paranoias. She couldn’t take the day anymore, let alone the night. Something just snapped.”

  “Okay,” he said. “How much of that had to do with his acting?”

  “All of it.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then why do you want to be an actor?”

  “I don’t want to be an actor.” Instinctively she moved her head so that the light fell on her nose beautifully. “I am an actor.”

  He drank his wine. “Come on. Eat up.”

  “Also I’d like to be able to pay my mother’s bills when that day comes that Freddy no longer can do.”

  “Thanks for the steak,” Fletch said. “Eat yours up, or I’ll attack you instantly.”

  Moxie picked up her knife and fork. “So what are you going to do tomorrow?”

  Fletch shrugged. “Guess spend another day going around apologizing to people.”

  “Who’s left?”

  “The Bradley kids.”

  Moxie nodded. “Your piece must have been a real shock to them.”

  “I wouldn’t feel right not touching base with them.”

  “You’ll come to the cocktail party tomorrow night at the Colloquial Theater?”

  “Sure. I’ll go with you.”

  “Do me a favor, though, uh?”

  “Anything.”

  “Don’t mention Freddy.”

  “Frederick Mooney. A famous name.”

  “Infamous,” she said. “Infamous.”

  16

  A S. F L E T C H W A L K E D by he noticed the boat still in the driveway, gleaming white under its fresh coat of paint under the three o’clock in the morning moonlight. Except for the street lights, there was only one light visible in the neighborhood, a coach lantern several houses down.

  In bare feet he went up the Bradley’s driveway and into the opened garage. The door to the house was locked. He went around the house to the kitchen door, which was also locked.